The gods are dead; but still for me <br />Lives on in wildwood brook and tree <br />Each myth, each old divinity. <br /> <br />For me still laughs among the rocks <br />The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks <br />Drop perfume on the wildflower flocks. <br /> <br />The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam; <br />And, whiter than the wind-blown foam, <br />The Oread haunts her mountain home. <br /> <br />To him, whose mind is fain to dwell <br />With loveliness no time can quell, <br />All things are real, imperishable. <br /> <br />To him-whatever facts may say- <br />Who sees the soul beneath the clay, <br />Is proof of a diviner day. <br /> <br />The very stars and flowers preach <br />A gospel old as God, and teach <br />Philosophy a child may reach; <br /> <br />That cannot die; that shall not cease; <br />That lives through idealities <br />Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece. <br /> <br />That lifts the soul above the clod, <br />And, working out some period <br />Of art, is part and proof of God.<br /><br />Madison Julius Cawein<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beauty-and-art/
